


Little Monsters

by LHasty



Category: Prototype (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 08:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18362141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LHasty/pseuds/LHasty





	Little Monsters

They’d called him a monster.  
No, no.

That wasn’t quite right, was it? 

He wasn’t a him, but an it. A very intelligent it, thought processes the likes of which most couldn’t follow, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t quite work out at the end of the day. Did that matter?

Did he have feelings? Feelings was a strong word. It had too many meanings, most of which he wasn’t sure he - it, Goddamnit - grasped. Every time he tried, they ran running and racing out of his grasp, slithering out of his mental fingers, mental palms with huge, gaping chasms.

Some days, he was just a man, a scientist, confused and concerned about a world that didn’t give a flying fuck about him. Because he wasn’t he, wasn’t she, wasn’t some society that tried to tell them how to live their sheepish fucking lives anyway. 

He wasn’t a man - but he wasn’t a machine, either. 

Imagine being caught in perpetual limbo.

There’s a fun fucking fair ride.

And so he stood at the top of the world, the highest skyscrapers, looking down at all of them - them, who would’ve looked, would’ve stared, poked and prodded at him.

Pinched and pushed needles into him, as if they had the fucking right–

Just a bunch of worthless insects, trying to play God.

If he did - IT, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, YOU’RE AN IT, YOU’RE NOT ONE OF THE–

If it did have feelings…it most certainly would not have been from the milling masses, the odd, wretched things moving about beneath this great height it perpetually perched itself on.

Alex Mercer might not have given a shit about others, but he’d at least given a shit about himself, to a degree.

It wasn’t Alex Mercer. Not really. It might have worn his flesh, might’ve stared at this shit-hole world with his eyes…

…but Blacklight was not Alex Mercer.

Not him at all.

It had to keep telling itself that, had to keep shoving the last semblances of Mercer’s sanity out of its mind when it came up with a game plan, a real playbook about how to run the world.

All by its lonesome, all by itself. And there’s a difference between ‘alone’ and 'lonely’.

A huge one.


End file.
